Snowite (Parts iv – viii)

For parts i – iii click here

(iv)
This mirror,
a gift from him,
the carved frame
finger-softened

“It's in the classic style”
he says.
Spotless glass
blank-faced,
I can see her cherubs
smirking
in the cornices.

“Look!
A beautiful portrait!”
Words bounce
in and out
from mouth
to mouth as he sets
his reflection
upon the wall.

(A handy hook)

Then he ushers me there,
stands aside
“You see?”

The floor-boards look a little scuffed
beneath my shoes.

A scent hangs about:
linseed? or Chanel?

(v)
I try to befriend
this mirror

my eyes print
so boldly
on that clean, clean glass.

He says 'feline'
beautifully.
arching from his mouth
stretching to caress me

But I see irises
rib-cage narrow
banded by tawny latitudes
proud
calculating.

		The little girl is dark and pale as the moon
			“in the classic style”
		            Her eyes are ink blots
	            round and tranquil in her skin's sweet milk.


(vi)
What came before me?

The mirror doesn't answer,
stares back:
at my nose;
a slender dune,
at my cheekbone;
a snake's way through sand,
and my eyebrows
twin frond silhouettes
failing to soften
the long
horizon of my brow.

Earthy colours must
fade beside such history;
those stunning opposites.


		(vii)
		A leaf
		glides past the window.
		She swings 
		in the garden.

		They dance in unison
		she and the leaf
		in late autumn's gusty breath.

		The leaf settles
		among a mulch of others
		disappears.
		
		  ...the woman who died
		lost to the ground,
		the happy
		perfection of memory.

		A distant call
		an aerial leap
		the swing dangles
		erratic
		alone

		the girl skips away
		
		Lunch.
		I fix my hair
			and the mirror smiles
			approves the directness of my gaze.
		I am ready.



(viii)
It is simple mathematics

one and one
should never
ever
be three.

To be continued….